Clegane Keep
by Moa in the Moon
Summary: Sandor doesn't run during Blackwater- but is sent away after it. Back to his childhood home, with a wife in tow. Please do take a moment and review!
1. Chapter 1

1)

The stars hung in the sky, unwavering in the fathomless black of night. The earth had cooled; the tincture of beauty that the season changing brings was flowering. What was death, now? Even in the South there were hints of the Winter, the inevitable change from the lightness to the dark. Death was everywhere. The green wildfire was gone, but the sick rot of burnt ship wood and flesh mixed with the salt air, wrapping the city up in its scent as it drifted in from off of the bay.

He could have left, should have left-should have taken off from the battle field and gone to another place-that part didn't matter. He could have lit out for the North or caught a ship and travelled to Essos, Braavos, the Dothraki kingdoms, Gods be damned.

The Flowers and the Garden had spikes. The Lion still has claws.

They overflowed in the city now, what was a few hours past a lost cause was now a place of elation. The Baratheon pretender was defeated- long live King Joffrey, long may the walls of King's Landing stay sturdy. _Long may this fucking wine skin stay full._

The stench of death was upon him, the smell of burning flesh all about. There weren't enough wine sinks in the Seven Kingdoms to make the stench go away. There weren't enough whores to fuck, enough men to kill, enough gold to spend to mask it or diminish it. It lingered like poison in the body. It cut through everything, seizing the senses, slaying the better part of his mind.

The smell of perfume in Baelish's whorehouse couldn't cut through it-didn't rectify the problem. In response to their victory, Baelish had given every Goldcloak and member of the Kingsguard a woman for the night and enough wine to drown a man—his construction of the King's gratitude.

He looked down upon her, his eyes bleary from wine and smoke, exhaustion and anger.

_Little Bird'll have to marry the King now._

Her hair was as red as a Tully. Her eyes weren't blue, but what did he care? He couldn't see her eyes when she was sucking upon him. She probably preferred it that way, too. That way she wouldn't have to look at his face. He hated the way they tried, the false seduction. The whores in the wine sinks didn't bother, nor did the groat and ale women of flea bottom-their style was to lift their skirts and avert their faces. They'd take their money and leave, the whole thing behind them.

Baelish's whores were taught to seduce, to pretend. This whore had tried to ply him with kisses and wine, asking him who he wanted her to be.

_Seven Hells, I'd give my life for you to be Sansa Stark._

Instead he just barked at her to shut her fucking mouth and work on his cock. He knew he broke the protocol of Baelish's establishment, went against the function of the whores. He was supposed to seek his dreams in them, sink his hopes in between their legs, live out his disappointments in their mouths. _Bugger that shit._

The stench made it too difficult, he couldn't finish. He couldn't maintain himself enough to relax. He pushed her off of him and put himself away, throwing down coin even though Baelish had given her without charge. He walked back into the night, towards his room, his home. Whatever the fuck home is.

He made it to his bed and didn't bother undressing. The Little Bird-he'd only stayed on for her. If Joffrey had died he would have left easily. He couldn't go and abandon her to him. He was the only thing that stood between the Lion and the Little Bird. He hated himself for thinking of her.

All too often he'd imagined a life where he didn't have his scars and she was just a poor metal worker's daughter. He could have married her, not the Lion gone mad. He'd put himself to sleep with thoughts of her-and what he'd do if he had her. His first idea was always to fuck her, but that somehow transformed into newer thoughts-building her a house, bringing her a flower.

For a moment he didn't notice the stench of burnt bodies in the air.

He closed his eyes and passed out.

* * *

The afternoon had been monotonous, award after award was being given out to the victors of the battle. Lordships were granted, titles were bestowed, marriages were given approval. The day dragged on-and The Hound was in no mood for standing guard. The sunlight and southern heat made the stench even worse. The dead were largely unburied, their wounds were already beginning to decay in the sands and in the streets. The stench of rot and death was everywhere, intermingling with the still omnipresent smell of smoke.

Sandor paid no attention to the comings and goings of business of King's Landing-he hadn't the slightest fascination with it. He regarded it the way he regarded the high prices whores-useless and false. He hated most everyone and everything in King's Landing and couldn't bear to focus on any of it. Joffrey calling for him to stand before the throne shook him from his apathetic duty.

"Dog! Stand before me and the court!" King Joffrey demanded. Without word Sandor stepped down and marched before Joffrey in the midst of the gathering. He'd quit being embarrassed by being bossed around by a child king. Everything hit him in the same way-duty and penance.

"My Grace?" He asked him, his voice flat.

"Your brother is dead. A raven came this morning. You are the last surviving Clegane. Mother says that makes you Lord of the Clegane Keep. I've decided to send you home. You're to maintain the land and the people there. Mother says that you have been loyal to my family so we shall pay you very well."

Sandor's face twitched. He said nothing, his face told nothing. He immediately thought of the Little Bird. He'd not be allowed to stay and protect her. He could have just run the night before and forced her to come—instead he'd waited for her sake, and for what? He hated the appointment.

"Mother also says that I don't have to keep the Stark bitch anymore. I had half a mind to give her to Ser Meryn, but Mother suggested that I ask you if you'd like to take her. I don't care what you do with her. I think she'd make a good house-wench. You could also breed her. Or even marry her-I'm sure she'd hate that. Sleeping in a Dog's bed. Either way, if you don't want to take her with you I'll just let a few men have her and then put her head on a spike."

Sandor watched as the words dripped off of his worm-like lips. He stood calmly, refusing to look at the Little Bird, who he knew was in the audience—he couldn't. For her sake. For his. He didn't want to see the look of horror he imagined was on her face. He only stood and starred at Joffrey, intent on giving nothing away. He stood clenching his jaw, his inner lip being pinched by his incisors.

"It's an honor, my Grace. I will take the Stark Bitch as a slave to the Keep. She'll be mine to deal with from now on." His voice revealed only violence, everything about him pronounced bad intentions. Joffrey smiled.

"Then you're released. You can leave for your Keep at first light. Take the Stark whore with you, or else I might think twice about taking her head."


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Sansa Stark was situated among the rest of the gallery, where she watched the day's proceedings occur. When King Joffrey cast her off her face revealed nothing. She was aware of the eyes that were upon her, looking for some clue as to her emotional state. What was within was not revealed without-ribbons of joy were lashing through her, but her face remained stony. She wore her mask well.

She was free of Joffrey at least. The dread of his abuses would end, though she didn't know to what degree. She'd been pawned off to his Dog. He'd treated her gently, yet she was still afraid of him. He was brash and abrupt, callous and hardened. She could hear a tone of glee in his voice when he agreed to take her on-_he'd deal with her_. She didn't like the sound of that. Yet she was free-better off that what she would have otherwise been.

She could feel, for a moment, Joffrey laying his eyes upon her. He wanted her reaction-he wanted to squeeze the last bit of terror out of her, break her before he let her go. She thought that she should react, acquiesce what she knew he required. She screwed up her face as though she had been beaten and let tears fall down her cheeks. Her display was one of her best-she looked as though she wanted to fight this, hide from her new fate. She gave him that-let him believe that his kindness was better than a Dog's. His eyes filled up with a malicious glow.

She didn't look at The Hound as he strode towards her, the crowds which gathered around her parting until she stood in the midst of everything completely detached and alone. Without warning he pulled her towards him and lowered his face, whispering lowly into her ear "Up you go, Little Bird." He scooped her up and gently hoisted her over his shoulder. Once, long ago, being carried in the court like that would have shamed her. She felt nothing but a staid relief. He'd said it so calmly and lifted her so carefully. For a moment she nearly felt safe.

The Hound carried her to where he'd been standing only moments earlier.

"My Grace." He addressed Joffrey, waiting to be dismissed.

"The Wolf-Bitch is crying, Dog. She hates you. You'll make her miserable. The traitor deserves nothing but the worst from you. Mother says that she is to remain a Lady, but I don't agree. Forthwith Sansa Stark is stripped of all of her titles. She is no longer a Lady of Winterfell. I've changed my mind-you can't do what you want. She's to be the wife of a Dog. I don't want to give the pretender in the North any ideas of coming to collect his sister. Dog, I demand that you marry her and breed her. I'll not listen to Mother's ideas. I'm King-I've defeated Stannis. I make the decisions!"

Joffrey was addressing Sandor, but the speech was meant for his mother. Cersei had the look of the grave about her-The Hound knew what was on her mind. _Jaime_-the only pawn to win him back was being ripped away from her and there was nothing that she could do. Joffrey was asserting himself even more than what he'd done before Blackwater.

Sandor said nothing-what could he say? A thousand thoughts clamored through his mind, making it impossible for him to focus on anything but the weight about his shoulders. He nodded and waited, his jaw tense and his head reeling. He pulled Sansa off of his shoulders and turned her towards Joffrey. Neither Sansa nor Sandor had looked into each other's faces. It wouldn't have made a difference; their expressions said nothing of their minds, only of their stations and what was expected of them.

Sansa was audibly crying, her face reddened and slicked with tears.

"Sansa Stark-The Hound is going to take you to your room and empty out your things. You are to take only your clothing and affects, nothing that belongs to King's Landing. You are to stay with him in his kennel into you leave in the morning. As soon as you arrive at Clegane Keep you will marry him in his Sept. He'll send a raven when the thing is done. Perhaps you'll learn to be a good wife by then, wolf-bitch."

Sansa nodded and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

"If it please your Grace." She managed to chirp and fell into her curtsy, lowering her eyes to him.

"It does please me. Now go, Dog, and get her out of my sight. She sickens me."


	3. Chapter 3

Sandor gripped Sansa's hand as they walked-the gesture was anything but romantic. He was urging her on, trying to keep a grasp on her. She frightened him as much as he imagined that he must be frightening her. She was so delicate, yet oddly strong. She had an unreal composure about her, a cold stoicism that was misplaced compared to her beauty and her youth. His hand was massive compared to hers, his grip uncomfortable and tense no matter how he tried to adjust it for her. Neither said anything as they walked away from her room, taking what little actually belonged to her. She had a few dresses that she put into a satchel, the doll that her father had given her, a pair of slippers. He carried her things, everything on the earth that was hers slung across his shoulders. Without what had been given to her, without her titles, she was as good as a kitchen wench. Perhaps no better, she thought, at least they served a tangible function. Her future, while set, was still completely unclear. The Hounds wife-she couldn't even comprehend what that would mean for her.

She'd never seen where any member of the King's Guard slept-their rooms, spaces. The hall was small and dark, a cold recess in the depths of the Red Keep. Sandor walked ahead of her, guiding her by the hand. He said nothing when they reached his room and he let her in. It was cold and dark, too-like everything that she'd seen on the way. She was surprised, though, to see that it was at least clean and comfortable. She'd imagined his room really would be like a dog's kennel-cramped and unorganized. While the domicile was decidedly harsh, it didn't terrify her. In many ways it was superior to her former dwelling.

"I have things to do before we leave tomorrow. Do whatever you want here. When I leave I want you to bolt the door and do not let anyone but me into the room. Under no circumstances are you to open the door, girl. I shouldn't be long." He growled at her dismissively.

"Yes, my lord." She whispered, looking at her feet.

_"_Bugger that lord shit. You're being forced to marry me-titles don't mean anything." He spat, his voice much harsher than he had intended. She continued to look down and nodded. She wouldn't look at him.

He stood for a moment starring at her before turning on his heels and leaving, slamming the door behind him. He waited a moment and listened while she latched the bolts and locks on the door. He walked quickly away, his nerves frayed.

Sansa waited by the door for a moment, listening as his heavy footsteps moved away. She could hear him disappearing down the hall. The room was as cheerless as a cave, nothing within it hinted at anything kind or soft. She stepped out of the doorway and began walking about, exploring tentatively. The front room held nothing particular-there was no sitting area, no place to take guests. It lead directly into his solar, and then to his bed and bath. The fireplace in his room contained no ashes or hint of fires once built and his bed was stacked up with blankets. Of course she knew why, the secret knowledge of his past was very apparent in this room. Without thinking she went to his bed and pulled a blanket around her. She laid her head on one of her pillows and began crying in earnest. No matter how unsure she felt about what her future held, she felt safe in his bed. She cried out of relief, out of exhaustion. She'd spent so long bottling herself up. She knew that Joffrey wasn't going to call for her, nor would the Maester come to examine her. She'd be able to lay there until the Hound returned without fear. She pulled another blanket around her, nearly collapsing into sleep.

She laid there for hours, wondering what it would be like to be married to the Hound. Would he ever grow to like her, to see her as anything other than a pest? Even more, would she ever love him-trust him? It became clear to her that he'd always watched out for her, and that must count for something. He'd never raised a hand to her, though he'd tongue lashed her enough. She was wondering how he felt about the arrangement-judging by his reaction he seemed to be disgusted enough by the entire set up. It made her feel glum and uneasy. She'd always imagined her husband to be desperately in love with her, not a hateful Lannister retainer turned Lord that had to **deal with her. She began crying again. It all seemed awful and ramshackle.

There was an jarring pounding at the door that shook her out of her crying fit. She didn't think about trying to make the bed up-she ran quickly through his living quarters to the door and began undoing the locks. She immediately thought that she should at least ask who was at the door. He'd warned her, after all.

"Who is it?" She peeped.

"The Hound. I've returned."

"How do I know it's the Hound and not someone pretending?" She asked. Perhaps caution would be best employed.

"Bugger that, girl. Let me in."

She undid the last latch, opening the door so that he could walk into him own home. Their home. Whatever home.

He was bogged down with things-satchels and boxes, his squire acting as his shadow carrying a trunk. He told the boy to bring it into the room and then leave. The boy put up no fight and left with great haste, pacing out of the room.

"I trust things went well, my-my, um-?" She paused. "What should I call you?"

"The unlucky bastard who has to travel to the Westerlands, Little Bird." He replied as he unloaded his things. "And yes, things went well."

He was arranging everything, putting boxes and bags about.

"Well, open them Little Bird. I think I got everything." He said, the edge in his voice not seeming quite as sharp.

Sansa looked on, slightly confused. "What things are those?"

"For fucks sake girl, your things. How do you think you'll live at my Keep with only a few dresses and a doll?" He rasped. She looked at his face for a moment and then turned her eyes away. She hated looking at him-there was so much rage within those eyes that it made her feel sick.

He pulled one of the boxes and shoved it at her.

She took it and sat on the floor, delicately lifting the lid. She pulled out a blue silk dress with an embroidered bird on the shoulder, below it was another like it in a soft green. They were lovely and they shocked her. She looked up and smiled at him. He handed her another box, this one filled with more dresses, another box with a new pair of slippers. A set of brushes and a mirror wrapped in colored paper. Lavender soaps. Each item he passed to her was exceedingly beautiful, especially coming from him.

"How did you know that I would like these?" She whispered, looking up at his face.

"I asked a girl at the market what a Little Bird would like. You lost everything today, I thought you could at least recoup some of it."

"They must be very expensive-" She whispered. _She thinks you're poor, Dog. Seven hells._

"Do you take me for a pauper, little girl? I'm a former white cloak for the _Lannisters_, I can afford this girly shit." He scoffed, handing her another box. She opened it and pulled back a piece of silk. In it was a beautiful sewing kit with silk threads and dainty scissors. Below the kit there was a book. She pulled it out and opened it.

"Fairy stories!" She exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. She pressed the book against her chest and stood up quickly, giving him a polite curtsy. "Thank you, I cannot say thank you enough." She extended her hand and lightly brushed it against his. For a moment her flesh touched his voluntarily. The moment was over far too soon. She cautiously reticulated away from him, going back to her new things. He almost sighed.

Sandor left her in the front room so that she could pack her things into her new trunk. He'd felt somewhat proud of what he'd picked out for her. The trunk was a pretty little thing with tiny, intricate birds and flowers carved into it. _Build her a house, pick her a flower. Gods be damned._

He looked at his bed and realized that she'd been in it-the Little Bird had wrapped herself in _his_ blankets; there was indention of where her head had laid. He couldn't approach the bed-it summoned too much emotion within him. He stood and starred at it, his jaw twitching. He walked away from it and began the laborious process of taking his armor off. He immediately regretted sending his squire off-taking his own armor was a pain in his ass.

"Do you need help?" Her voice whispered from the doorway. He turned and looked at her, his face blank. She regarded him for a moment, making him feel shy and embarrassed of himself-his body that looked more like a torn up corpse than a man.

"Out!" He bellowed, sending her away without a second question.

He was soon out of his armor, standing only in his small clothes. He didn't keep mirrors in his quarters-he had no use for them. He was glad of it; he didn't want to see himself. His body felt oafish and too big, too mean. His shoulders were as broad as a horse, his stomach was like carved stone made disgusting by thousands of cuts and lashes. His arms were heavy, his legs dense. He didn't resemble the pretty boy knights that rode in the tourneys-no one could ever call him a graceful creature.

Such a big creature so afraid of a small thing. Any other man in his position would have already taken her maidenhead and had her twice after that. Instead he went and bought her gifts and stupid girlish shit. He began dressing in his light clothes and glanced at the bed, feeling weary and nearly nauseous.

She'd have to sleep soon. He felt his heart skip a beat as his cock hardened.


	4. Chapter 4

Sandor called for Sansa to return from his Solar into his bedroom and, upon her arrival, felt odd having a woman in there. He realized, looking at her, that he'd never taken a woman into his own bedroom. He'd never fucked outside of a whorehouse or the back alley of a wine sink; he'd never even had a proper kiss. He glared at her and she gave him a sharp look back.

"You should put on your night clothes and get into bed." He said to her, rather abruptly. Her eyes widened as she looked at him.

"I'd like to remain a maiden until I am married to you, my lord." She stammered, just as abrupt. She looked him straight in the eyes when she said it, her voice strong.

"You think I mean to take you? The bed is yours-go to sleep." He replied dismissively and walked out. He came back a moment later and tossed her night dress on the bed, turning to leave once more.

"Wait." She said, her voice decidedly softer. "I didn't intend to take your bed from you-I'm just not prepared. Please don't feel offended." She pleaded.

Sandor looked at her, grunted, and walked out. He closed the door.

Sansa was once again alone in his room. She stood still for a moment, unsure of herself. She felt badly that he wasn't going to have access to his room or his bed. She'd also accused him of wanting to strip her of her maidenhead. She was actually surprised that he didn't intend to do that. Heavy thoughts coursed through her brain, made more acute by the sense of unease that she'd been carrying all day. All day—that was an understatement. It had been so long since she was sure of herself that it seemed to have happened in another life. She undressed and quickly pulled her nightdress on. She was still in the Red Keep, but being in the Dog's room made her feel much, much more secure than she had been previously. She wondered if perhaps the strange, mean and abrupt man would at least be a protective husband. Her thoughts drifted far from her as she put herself into his bed, pulling his blankets up around her, suddenly realizing that she was being enveloped by his scent. He'd been called a Dog for so long that she imagined that he smelled like one—she regretted that connection. Instead, she was breathing in the scent of pine resin, amber and juniper. It made her feel strangely sympathetic towards him. She thought of home, her mother, her brothers, her little devil sister. She wondered how they were, how Catelyn would react when she heard her daughter had been married off to the King's retainer. If peace ever came, would she get to see her family again? Would he allow it-would her family accept her? The last connection she had with Winterfell, her title, had been stripped. She was too restless to sleep.

She sat up and got out of bed, putting slippers on her feet. She quietly walked to the door and listened to hear whether or not the Hound was stirring. She heard nothing so she cautiously opened the door, letting herself into his Solar. He was sitting quietly in a chair with her book open on his lap, a single candle burning beside him. As soon as her shadow fell into the room he looked up at her.

"What do you need?"

"I was coming for the book-I couldn't sleep."

He closed it and held it out for her. She approached him and gingerly took it into her hands.

"If you aren't done with it I can wait." She offered, gently smiling.

"Take it-I was just seeing what kind of shit these stories are going to fill your mind with." He said, and then shook his head. "You can't sleep, either?"

"No, my head is spinning. I don't know what to think."

He snorted a laugh. "No, Little Bird, you don't know. I don't know what to think, either."

A quiet impasse came between them. She tried to keep looking in his face, forcing herself not to look away. She'd have to learn to look into his eyes, those gray wells of hatred. Eye contact seemed to soften them-at least partially.

"Would wine help you sleep?" He offered.

"I think it might." She tittered nervously. He got up and pulled out a wine skin, pouring it into the only cup that he had. He offered it to her. He'd just drink out of the skin.

"It's Arbor Gold-good, sweet shit that makes sleep easy."

She took a sip and smiled at him-she did like wine quite a bit. He sat back in his chair and she folded herself on the floor, nursing her drink. They both drank in silence, neither knowing how to start a conversation. She cleared out two cups without saying so much as a word to him. Sansa had never spent so much time alone with a man-it gave her a strange, heady feeling of being a grown woman, not a little girl. Drinking alone with a man. Thinking of it made her giggle.

"Do you find me amusing, Little Bird?" Sandor asked her, not feeling the wine as she clearly was.

"No!" She snorted, and began giggling again. "I don't know why I'm laughing."

He smiled at her and tossed back another gulp.

"I think you need to go to sleep or you will feel miserable in the morning." He stood and then bent down to scoop her up. She lifted up easily, wrapping her arms around his neck. She set her head on his shoulder and tightened her grip. Sandor stood still for a good minute, feeling her arms around him. She was drunk, but Gods be damned if it didn't tear at him a little bit. He took her to the bed and set her down gently, waiting for loosen her hands from around his neck.

"Are you going to stay in here with me?" She asked, her voice lilting with a lightly drunken slur. "I want to leave the Red Keep. I don't want to be here anymore. Are you going to stay with me?"

Before he could say anything, she pulled herself up and planted a sloppy kiss on the burnt side of his face and then finally let go of his neck, rolling over to fall asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

_Hey there, everyone. I have completely crapped out on writing my notes, so I haven't really said how it came to be that these stories are re-appearing, and what is happening to them. When I erased my stories from ff I erased them from my harddrive as well. I purged everything, and assumed that they would disappear forever. How wrong I was. One of my dear, dear readers Corezzi1973 saved all of my stories and, hearing upon my return, wanted to let me have the files. It is such a big deal to have these back. Without she and Lilfeather's help there would be no access to these stories, they would be lost forever. I know that these aren't exactly the Dead Sea Scrolls, but I still think that it is a big deal. I have only them to thank. I have been going back and re-formatting the stories, but I am spending more time of Clegane Keep. I was having problems with it when I was writing it the first time, and I want to work out the kinks. I think everything is starting to smooth out. There are some changes- more in the way of expanding the story, and changing some things which I thought were clunky. (Who knows if I succeeded...) Anywho, I am getting them up so that I can focus on this story for a little while. Please enjoy, and for the sake of the Gods, do comment! Thank you so much for your readership, and know that I love the hell out of all of you.  
_

_Love,  
_

_Moa  
_

* * *

The sun was low in the sky: the last mists of the morning were finally being sliced through. The earth was drying up from the night, recovering from its own wildness. The Hound had woken Sansa up before the sun had a chance to rise and had spirited her away from King's Landing with all haste. He'd sent a raven ahead of him to his Keep to inform the good for nothing old Septon that he would arrive and would need to be married immediately. Sending the correspondence was strange enough, made worse and more gruesome by their trek back home. He was glad that they had made it out so early and that nothing had detained them. He worried that their departure might have been accompanied by a going away present from the little shit King being delivered by Ser Illyn or Ser Meryn. Even though he was free from his duties as retainer he wouldn't have been able to stop the mad little King's bloodlust. It would be easier on him once he was at his Keep, no matter how complicated everything else was.

He thought of the kiss that Sansa had given him the night before-it was quick and childlike, more a kiss from a friend than a lovers kiss. It didn't matter-it still weighed heavily on him. He tried to put it out of his mind but he couldn't. Seeing her asleep in his bed all night caused his heart so much trauma that he didn't sleep at all. He only sat up in his chair and watched her sleep off her drunken revelry. He had to force himself to leave her and go and prepare for their departure. As soon as his squire arrived to begin moving things out to the horse and loading them onto a cart he had to sow the seeds of viciousness again, harden himself against the world at large. He had to will his body to comply. It wouldn't have made life any easier if he would have walked about with a dreamy look in his eyes, pining over the Little Bird. His eyes went cold and callous, his jaw tense. He barked at the stable boys and squire, baring his teeth and making threats. Every little thing that they did got under his skin—mostly because he wanted to be alone with her again, and their stupid mistakes were losing him precious time. The ordeal took less than an hour, but it felt like it dragged on for an eternity.

On the road and riding he was still unable to relax. He thought it might have been a mistake not to have taken the extra time to have secured her a pony of her own-and a riding vest, too. His destrier, Stranger, was so wide that it forced her to ride with her legs completely spread. She leaned against him to steady herself and her arse continually rubbed against him as she moved along with the horse's long gallop and stride. He had only to look down and have a full view of the top of her chest-two perfectly white globes straining against the cut of her dress. They moved as well, a rhythm that made horse riding nearly dangerous. He had to force himself not to stare at them for the sake of controlling his horse-and himself. It was all made worse by her red hair loosening from the braid she'd so carefully woven that morning-he could smell her so thoroughly it intoxicated him.

Any other man would have pulled her off of the horse and fucked her on the side of the road-yet that thought didn't cross his mind. He couldn't allow himself to consider having any part of her. As desperately as he wanted her he'd wait until the Septon gave the final blessing. He swore to himself that he'd get her a pony of her own and a proper riding vest at the next town.

He'd broken a lot of the promises he made to himself.

Every day became the same cycle: Sandor would ride the horse as hard as he could through the day and stop at an Inn at night. They had hardly enough to time to speak to one another. The manic pace that the Hound set made Sansa feel as though she were travelling with a complete stranger-being with him out of King's Landing was surreal. She was so used to him being Joffrey's shadow and constant guardian that the shift made her feel out of her own wits. He'd always managed to get her the biggest bed in any Inn and found a way to get some house maid to attend to her needs. He'd always inspect the room before he had her stay in it-he'd check for rodents and roaches, any matter of filth. He'd lie to the Innkeepers and tell him that he was an escort for a Lady of Casterly Rock, that he was a Lannister man. This received the same kind of nervous response, an anxiousness to please. The road between King's Landing and the Westerlands was still loyal to the Lannister family-she moved among lions and he made it a task to protect her from their sharpened claws. He'd feed her well and would sleep outside of her bedroom door, on a bedroll in the hallway. He always regarded her sharply and she couldn't tell if he liked her at all.

Every night was the same routine. When Sansa would shut the door to go to sleep he'd almost managed to convince himself that she wanted to ask him into her room. She gave him a look—what was that? Longing? _For fucks sake_. He couldn't tell—he only knew what he hoped that look was. It didn't move him to ask. Just to spend the entire night wondering in silent agony.

* * *

She still be no means trusted him, but the travelling and the close proximity to her impending marriage began to raise strange feelings within her. He didn't display any desire for her, and her trained mind knew that desire was one of the keys to a successful marriage. He wasn't a knight, but sometimes he would act gallantly towards her-he'd always treat her gently when pulling her down from his destrier, he was always concerned about her accommodations. When she spoke to him he would rarely utter a response, but he never let her want for anything. This journey should have been a nightmare, but she was finding that some of it was pleasurable. Especially riding during the days. The horses movements were making her notice feelings that she wasn't entirely sure were proper. Of course, she had no one to ask. She wanted to talk to him but couldn't find the way.

Every night was the same—he would deposit her at the doorway to her room, and every night she would stare at him, her voice unable to speak. She wanted to offer him entrée to her room—let him know that she wouldn't mind if he slept with her. She could say that it would make her feel safer, but how much more safety would that offer her? He guarded her door. No—it was something else. She missed something. Perhaps it was the feeling of riding with him all day, and being separated at night. Either way, she couldn't say, and so did nothing but stare at him, so badly wanting to speak.

So they spent the journey a studied in silence. She was filled with mixed joy and terrible dread when the Hound finally pulled in the reigns, whispering to her: "There it is. Welcome home, Little Bird."


	6. Chapter 6

From first sight the Hound's Keep looked like misery-it was a dour, gray estate that was lodged in the middle of a craggy and yellowing field. The sky had gone dull with an impending rain and a melancholy air seemed to be rising, as though it were from the Keep itself. The trees that dotted the field were barren and bent over, as though they were the mere skeletons of things which had lived before. Sansa thought of the stories that she had heard growing up-not of Clegane Keep specifically, but of The Dreadfort that belonged to House Bolton and of the nightmare Harrenhal. She thought of curses and evil. The place looked vile.

She could feel the Hound slowing Stranger-even he seemed resistant to going any further. Sansa was, without good reason, beginning to feel frightened. The Hounds arms were outstretched beyond her body as he held the reigns to his destrier and reminded her of her protection. It struck her that the only thing that she was even slightly certain about was his dedication to her defense. Since their departure and their subsequent arrival at his Keep he'd said nearly nothing to her, but proved himself trustworthy in that sense. In a few hours he would be her husband and she still knew nothing of him. She'd be committed to his Keep. It looked like a house of death. She took her arms and wrapped them around the Hound's massive left arm and squeezed it tightly. She wanted the cloak of his strength to wrap around her and keep her from whatever awful things laid ahead.

The first sight of Clegane Keep over the rocky hilltops had finally pulled Sandor's mind away from her. The journey had been horrid-he'd had his penultimate desire always within a finger's reach but he couldn't speak to her. She'd been his constant companion, not only in travel but in his thoughts, his dreams. When he breathed it was her sweet scent that filled his lungs, when he ate his silent dinners with her it was as though he was receiving his fill not from food, but her presence. Regrettably, everything became this girl. She haunted him. He'd managed to stay hard all day while she rode against him and had no way at night to relieve himself. Every night he'd slept in front on her door like a dog-the thought of her undressing on the other side of the door was his nightly torture. In any other scenario he would have taken his cock out and given himself his pleasure, but was too afraid that she would know. He'd spent the entire journey in a state of complete frustration. The last few days were focused only on maintaining, while her red hair swirled in the wind and her perfect and pale breasts moved with the motions of riding. His first relief was the Keep.

Everything came back to him as though he'd never gone, in spite of the fact that he hadn't been home since he was 14. He never thought he'd return, certainly hoped for that. By the time he had left his sister, mother and father were dead. Until he was finally able to leave Sandor had to live alone with his brother and maintain the estate while Gregor was out fighting King Robert's Rebellion in the name of Tywin Lannister. Gregor would sometimes return home with new women and whores in tow, and would leave behind fresh corpses for Sandor to clean up after. When he didn't come home with a whore to kill he'd abuse any member of the staff-stable boys, fish wives, even the Maester. At least he begun to leave his brother alone-Sandor had become a veritable opponent, no longer a little mutt that Gregor got to kick around. Gregor kept huge and evil dogs about the house that would chew through a child without a second thought- dogs that Gregor would use to attack Sandor when he felt threatened by the growing boy's abilities. Every time Sandor managed to win one of the dogs over it would wind up killed, so he was eventually denied even keeping a pet. When finally Sandor left he swore he'd never return. If it weren't for the Little Bird he wouldn't have. If Joffrey hadn't threatened to have her head put on a spike he would have taken his title and buggered it off in Braavos.

The morose thoughts about the past that pulled him away from thinking of the Little Bird (her hair, her scent, her soft skin, _her tits_) weren't worth shit-but he couldn't shake them. At least, not until he felt her wrap little her arms around his and burrow her head into him. She seemed like she wanted to hide-but not _from him_, but rather to have him protect her—for him to act as her storybook night. It was the first bit of overt attention that she'd paid him since her drunken kiss their first night together. For a moment he was overwhelmed again. He took his right arm and pulled her into him, shielding her—content to do so. He could feel her breasts resting on top of his arm. Once again he was able to have a thought that wasn't of his murderous brother.

"You're all right, Little Bird." He whispered close to her ear as he dug his heels into Stranger. They shot across the field, straight to his Keep. She murmured a reply and rested her cheek against his armored bicep. It was cold against her flesh, yet strangely inviting.

By the time they'd finally reached the Keep a cold and sharp rain was falling. It felt like Winter's impending descent on the south lands was being hinted at in the icy water droplets. The stables were entirely empty and run down-a few old pieces of tack hung on the walls, and a misshapen young man milled about in the shadows. The appearance of the stable boy made Sansa clutch tighter to the Hound. She liked the feeling of his arms stiffening around her, the sensation of his chest moving as he barked orders at the stable boy-he exerted a strange power that she was beginning to realize was, perhaps, the essence of all of her fairy knights. Could it be that the fairy notions that she held so dear were all based around masculinity-that perhaps Sandor encompassed those virtues-the ideals of cruelty and kindness pulled together by a thread of power and might? He seemed to be all of those things.

Thinking of this and feeling his arms around her brought her a sudden sensation akin to that of horse riding. Only this time it came from deep inside of her. The feeling was like a pressure building below her, making sitting uncomfortable. It made her feel embarrassed and uncomfortable. What she wouldn't have given to have someone to talk to about this. Her Septa would have scolded her-Cersei would have spit at her-her mother, she couldn't imagine. Even thinking of her Lady Mother was becoming difficult because she was slowly forgetting the details that once were so strong. She leaned further into the Hound but was quickly rebuffed by his suddenly becoming very alert.

Sandor jumped down from Stanger, knocking the approaching stable boy aside. He didn't pull Sansa after him, he instead charged the boy with his hand and a half sword drawn.

"Get the fuck up!" He barked. The stableboy spit on the ground, glaring daggers at Sandor.

"Who the 'ell are you?" He asked, his voice chilling and strange.

"The man who is going to send you to hell if you don't rise."

"You're the Hound, ain't you?" The boy asked stupidly.

Sandor only growled his reply.

The stable boy was quickly to his feet, looking wobbly but also dumb enough to consider a fight. Sandor pulled out a single Gold Dragon and threw it at his feet. The stable boy said not a word, but rather cautiously bent down to pick up the gold piece. He looked up at Sandor with a raised eyebrow.

"Take that piece and take any horse that is left. Run ahead of me and tell everyone to pack their things and leave immediately-anyone left after an hour's time is to die. Find the Septon and tell him that he is to perform a marriage within moments and make it clear that is he to leave for King's Landing and report to the High Septon the details of the marriage he performed. If you fail to do this, boy, you'll be hanging by your guts in a dungeon begging for sweet death." Sandor's words came out sharper than any Sansa had ever heard before. Without hesitation the boy peeled past Sandor, running towards the courtyard. He made such haste one could imagine him kicking up smoke as he ran.

* * *

Sansa laid still and quiet, the cold air on her body growing more and more uncomfortable. The room was almost completely dark; the sun was setting quickly and she was getting to grow worried of what she was to do. He said he'd be back soon, but was no where to be found. The wedding had been a ruinous disaster: the Hound didn't even look at her, but kept his eyes sharpened on a fire burning behind the Septon. As soon as the final words were said he threw his plain cloak (there wasn't even a sigil sewn onto it!) around her and proceeded to scream at the holy man to leave his Keep and never return. Sansa could feel her heart breaking; the only thing that she had ever truly looked forward to was her wedding day. Everything about it had been wrong. At soon as the Septon left the Hound hauled Sansa over his shoulder up a narrow flight of stairs into a cold and still room where he'd told her to make herself ready. He left quickly and didn't indicate when he'd return.

She didn't know what he meant by "making herself ready", so she assumed that he wanted her ready to sacrifice her maidenhead. Her Septa had at least done her job in making that part of marriage clear: she knew that she was expected to be undressed, so she did so dutifully. She stood and starred at the bed; it was sparse and looked terribly uncomfortable-the linens were ancient and faded, telling a story of brocade and silk that had worn out over time. She sighed and tried to remember who she was as she began slowly unlacing her dress. She tugged it off of her shoulders, the blue riding cloth falling away to expose her chest first. She let drop the sleeves and wiggled her hips until the dress was in a pile around her feet. She moved her hands to lightly touch her breasts-an especially vulgar handmaiden of hers once told her that men prefer nipples that are hardened, and the best way to do that was to roll them between ones fingers. Sansa had never done before-now seemed the right time. She took each one in between her forefinger and thumb pinching softly, moving them slowly between her fingertips. A light shiver ran down her spine. She continued to toy with them, pulling them and rolling them until they were hard and the strange feeling she got from riding returned to her body. She kicked the dress out from under her feet, letting it stay on the floor. She sat on the edge of the bed and arranged her thigh high stockings-they were made of a pretty blue colored fabric that had to be laced up, secured by little belts that wrapped around legs. She straightened them so that the seam ran perfectly down the back of her leg. Lastly, she pulled down her small clothes, tossing them near the dress. She then laid back on the bed and closed her eyes, placing her hands back on her breasts. She wanted him to come and get it over with it. Being vulnerable on the bed, it occurred to her that some deep part of her actually wanted to please him. She imagined having a husband that desired her-she pulled her nipples hard while she visualized the Hound being kind to her, deferring to her. The riding feeling began mounting in her as she imagined him wanting her-and her wanting him back. Duty alone and the idea of marriage would have been enough, but his strange and quiet harshness was beginning to work its way through her. The feeling was becoming frustrating and she could only grind herself into the bed, spreading her legs and arching her back. She was squirming-and suddenly she felt that she was very wet. She was terrified that her moon blood had just come on-she placed her finger below her leg and lifted it up to the light to find no blood, but discover that touching herself caused the feeling to grow in the most delicious way. She bit her lip and touched herself again, feeling herself beneath her finger. She began rubbing a little circle while holding onto her breast with the other hand. Any shame that she knew that she should be feeling was being held at bay-waiting for her husband to come and take her maidenhead was suddenly made very exciting. She couldn't pull her hand from her cunt and she couldn't stop a light moan from escaping her lips. She was breathing heavily and was no longer in her room-she was only within herself, feeling every sensation that her body could offer.

She didn't hear the Hound opening the door to the room and certainly didn't see him starring at her with his mouth slightly agape. She did, though, imagine that it was him giving her this feeling, not her own hand. Despite feeling like everything was ruined, she couldn't help but desire him. She wanted her _husband_. She'd never said his name out loud, but felt compelled to murmur it in between her moaning spells. As soon as she did her feelings changed entirely. She began to shake while the pressure began swelling in her until it felt as though her entire body was being thrown into convulsions-it so shocked her that she opened her eyes wide and saw him.

It so surprised her that she cried his name again and began to cum.


	7. Chapter 7

_Hello readers__,_

_We still haven't made it out re-writes. There is one more chapter to go before we are in new waters. I did, though, edit the hell out of this. I hope it has been much improved. Please, please do review this. Christmas is also around the corner, so please send me your one shot and drabble requests- every request will be posted on Christmas Eve as my gift to everyone. Thank you for reading, and please do enjoy.  
_

_This is dedicated to MidnightDawn67, Corezzi 1973, and Rooker- my new reader. Enjoy!  
_

_Love,  
_

_Moa  
_

* * *

As soon as the wedding was over Sandor slammed the door on Sansa and tore away, moving as quickly as he could down the stairwell. He raced out of his home where he found the Septon hobbling towards the stables. The Septon was a man that Sandor had always hated-he'd been a fixture in his house before his birth. He was a sniveling, evil man with a forked tongue and a taste for cruelty that ran deep. He'd been the one who attended Gregor's anointing, given blessing to his piece of shit brother's horrid behavior. He'd turned a blind eye to the abuses that went on in the house, had completely ignored his sister's death. He couldn't think on that, now—the little man had to survive to tell the court about the Hound's cruelty. He had to make sure that there was to be no mistake about it—he was going to make Sansa suffer. This is the song that he wanted him to sing for Cersei, for Joffrey, for the entire buggering court. He was going to begin breeding her, beating her, ruining her. He had to convince him of this.

"Stop!" He yelled at him, causing the little man to turn on his heels. His hunched back and weathered face were dreadful to look at, like raw meat stained with tincture of steel and silver nitrate.

"What is it, child?" The Septon hissed. His teeth were rotting, his mouth full of cavities and bleeding gums. He always spoke like a lame and penitent holy man, disguising his true self. He carried himself as though he were the vision of Baelor the Blessed—forked tongue liar that he was.

"The girl is miserable in the marriage. Do you understand that? She hates it here and I intend to force her to breed little pups. I'm going to make her suffer, do you understand that? If she speaks out of line she will know nothing but my fist—do you understand?" Saying the words sent a chill through his stomach—he felt like he were retching them out.

"It is your keep, my lord."

"And as a holy man that doesn't bother you? You will have no issue with announcing that at court?"

"It is for the God's to judge."

"And you'll make sure to make it clear to King Joffrey and his mother that I intend to keep Sansa here as my prisoner? I've already done away with my entire staff. She's not even going to have an attendant-you understand that? I've locked her away until I'm ready to use her. She didn't even have a pleasant wedding. She is locked in Gregor's room-you will report that."

The Septon nodded his head, raising his eyes piously towards the heavens. "My child, I'm pleased that you have taken a wife in such a manner."

Sandor nodded, his face knotted into a snear, and turned to leave. Over his shoulder he finished what he needed to say.

"If you ever return to my Keep, I'll kill you." He added. "Take a horse and go—but do not touch my Destrier. Ride fast, old man, there are many bad men afoot."

Sandor turned away from him and spit upon the ground. He looked up at the sky-the clouds that promised rain were clearing. Small patches of blue were creeping through the grayness, a few small rays of the evening sun were showing themselves. Autumn wind rustled the yellow grass that grew strong about the Keep, working airy fingers through Sandor's hair. He heard the howling of Gregor's dogs-the last item on his list of things to do away with.

Sandor went to the kennel and sliced all of the animals open, dragging their bodies into a corner to rot. They bit at him and snarled, trying for his throat. This is what they'd been trained to do, and so must die. He'd bury them in the morning. He'd hated those dogs-they were vile beasts that no man could trust. He knew that if one got loose and came upon his small bride they'd kill her without a second thought. He'd replace them with good, strong dogs that he could leave to protect Sansa when he was not in her company. He hacked at the dogs, wanting them to be his brother. He wanted their throat's to be Gregor's throat, wanted to crush their skulls as he wanted to crush his brother's in the exact manner. He could kill a thousand of Gregor's dogs, but some other bastard took the joy of killing him from Sandor. He'd have to find some way to erase Gregor from the Keep and remove his legacy completely.

He stood and looked out at the yellow fields and the gray rocks that shot up out of them. The land was a moorland-out past the rocks there were swamps where small purple flowers grew, where peat moss and crowberry multipied in abundance. The sparse trees would sway in the wind. Hoards of sheep roamed wild out there, and little frogs and vipers made their nests on the edges of the swamps. There was nothing around the keep for miles upon miles. The exodus of the staff meant that he was completely alone and isolated with the Little Bird. He went to find her trunk so that she could change her clothing. He wanted to offer her an apology for the nightmare her wedding had been. He wanted to tell her he did it only for her benefit, he wanted to go and fall down before her and beg forgiveness and promise her that he'd do anything to give her better. Mostly he just wanted to feed her a dinner and show her about her new home, find some way to promise her that from here on out she'd be safe.

He walked up the stairs and approached her door where he heard her low moaning. He was dead in his tracks for a moment, affixed to the spot. He placed his ruined ear to the door and listened-it was so quiet he could barely hear it. Instinct killed consciousness-he opened the door as gently as could be to witness his new wife lying on her bed, her legs open, her back arched and her eyes closed. He was immediately hard, his mind suddenly numb-his heart beating like a drum. She was rubbing herself with an entrancing ferocity-he had half a mind to pull himself out and take her without notice. His cock strained against his smallclothes, blood flowing to the tip in agonizing waves. He had every mind to pull himself out and take her-was about to-when she whispered his name. As soon as she did she began to quiver so hard that it seemed that even her toes were shaking-she was throwing her head farther back, raising her hips higher. She cried out his name again and made eye contact with him-ruining his plans, heightening hers.

He realized that he'd just seen her orgasm, and it was the most gorgeous thing he'd ever seen.

Sansa's eyes had trouble focusing after the exertions of her first orgasm. Her body was shaking hard, every extremity trembling like autumn leaves upon a branch. Sandor's name still hung on her lips like some magical incantation that had changed her entire physical state. She'd been so proper with her body that she was completely unaware that it could do that. Her pleasure, though, was shot through by the shock of seeing her new husband watching her, his own eyes pinned to her body.

An overwhelming moment passed over her, making her feel utterly weak. She closed her legs and covered her breasts with her arms, but couldn't do much else. She couldn't open her mouth to speak. A part of her wanted to hide-a tidal wave of shame was crashing over her. Another smaller part felt brazen-she felt like a woman, not a girl. The Hound's gaze was so strong she couldn't glance away from him. She set her eyes on his face and took him in completely. It made her aware that whatever feeling she had just had wasn't yet completely satiated.

Sandor took a step towards her as she tried covering herself once more-folding her legs up close to her body. She didn't realize that from his vantage that was more revealing than just shutting her legs and lying still. Her confidence deflated-it became utterly clear that he was so much bigger than her; his bicep alone was thicker than her waist. His face, which once seemed almost disgusting, was frightening yet devilishly handsome-the ruined side of it seemed terrible and revealing of his strength. He was indeed masculinity personified-he made her tremble on sight.

"How long have you been thinking of me, Little Bird?" He managed to ask her, his now-dry mouth twisting into a smile she'd only seen once on his face-when the Queen had sent him to find her when her Father had been captured.

"I've never-I didn't know-I, I-" She stumbled over her words. She was still too green to even know what happened.

"You didn't know what that would do to a man?" He stepped closer to her, gazing deeply at her.

"No-I was only trying to make myself ready, my Lord."

"Your Lord? Your dog husband." He corrected, the shock of being addressed by her as such still stung. "You're a sweet, naive Little Bird, aren't you?"

With every question he drew nearer to her and her breath came with more difficulty. Her stomach began aching from all of her nerves.

"I'm sorry-I didn't mean to do anything-I just wanted you to want me-" She stammered.

Sandor looked at her—his face clearly betraying exactly how he felt. The words struck him as deeply. What would make her feel that _he_ should be the one wanting _her_? "Pretty Bird, you don't have to worry about me wanting _you_." He rasped, a footstep away from her bed-her naked body lying completely unprotected. He could take her and he doubted that she would put up a fight. She seemed to be inclined towards submission at the time. Perhaps that would please him, but he'd already ruined her wedding. He wanted her to at least trust him, not roll over out of duty. Well-not completely. His most lascivious thought would be to take her in the way of his house sigil, to watch himself disappear into her while she supported herself on her hands and knees. _Seven fucking hells._

While he stood by her side she shut her eyes tight, avoiding his glare. She could feel his hand over her body, and braced herself for what was to come- and then his hand was drawing away from her as he wrapped her in the blanket. He placed an unsure hand on her forehead, pushing her lovely hair back. Her eyes fluttered open and locked onto his, and for a moment she could see nothing hard or hateful in them.

"Dress yourself, Little Bird. I mean to feed you and show you your home before I truly make you a wife. I'll wait for you outside." His voice—was it trembling? Just slightly? Without warning he lowered himself to put a kiss on her cheek. Sansa drew the breathe from his lungs when she turned her mouth to meet his, their lips touching. Before he could draw away from her or react, she raised both hands and cupped his cheeks, pulling at him just slightly. Her fingers worked through his hair, pulling him closer. Their mouths were locked together. She could feel the different patterns of flesh on his lips—they were rough on the edges, with a soft palette towards the center. It was the ruined side of his face that she could feel the skin that covered deadened nerves, the flesh misplaced against the grain. She opened her mouth just enough—her tongue gently caressed the scars as she nervously sucked on his lower lip.

* * *

Sansa was thinking about the sunrise as she dressed—while he waited for her outside of the room. Her knees were shaking, her heart felt like it would cave under the weight of what she was feeling. She _had_ to give up her maidenhead before first light—there was no other option—it was of the utmost importance. Her maidenhead was the last link that tied her to the Lannisters, the last pawn on the board which could be used against her. A failure to be deflowered before the sun rose meant that there was a failure in the union, and there would be no precedence that could keep her safe—expect for his strength, which she trusted—but not enough to let the fear slip away from her.

* * *

Sandor fed her dinner at a small table in the kitchens. Since he'd sent what was left of the meager kitchen staff away, he was glad that there were things still left in the meat larders, as well as bread and stock. He didn't think that Sansa would be much help in a kitchen, and he himself was useless when it came to cooking. He could do simple things—skin a rabbit and roast it over a fire in a field if need be, but outside of that he was lost. He'd have to find a cook as soon as possible. That was another problem, entirely.

After they finished eating, he took her about the house, showing her where everything was, pointing things out regretfully. The house was ugly, there was no doubt about it-it was utterly cheerless, lacking in any womanly sensibility. There wasn't a single rug, mirror, tapestry- or any other lovely thing to be seen. Sandor thought that Sansa's presence alone lit up the halls.

"As soon as my squire arrives I'll see to it that you can do whatever you want with this place." He offered. "You can make it—um—pretty."

She smiled as she placed her hand onto his arm as they walked.

He'd given her a wine skin full of Arbor Gold-he'd taken some Dornish Red-it would be more amusing if they drank while they explored. Sansa had never been truly alone with anyone in a Keep or a hall. She'd always been so bogged down with chaperones, attendants, maids and Septa's that she didn't know what it was like to be able to do whatever she wanted. She could laugh loudly, spin about, anything. There was nothing to fear, here. There was no shadow of Ser Meryn or Ser Illyn—there weren't hoards of guards to follow her about. There were no attendants to be careful of, no handmaids that were instructed to report her every action. It was only she—and him. She wrapped her arm around his, snuggling into it, the wine making the world glow.

Sandor opened the door to a room, the most dour and awful of them yet. There was a massive bed that was buckling in the middle, covered in dusty old pillows and blankets that were deteriorating. There wasn't a single item in the room that suggesting decor or utility-not even a side table or a rug or a book. It looked more like the room in a dungeon.

"This is my room, Little Bird." He presented it to her, knowing she wouldn't be impressed. After all, why would she be impressed by that?

"_Your room_?"

"Yes, you have your room and I'll stay in here."

Sansa frowned as she stood in the doorway. She didn't like the idea of sleeping alone in the Keep.

"I don't think I would like that…" She whispered, still terrified to assert herself. That was still something which she could not trust.

"What?" He asked, sounding more gruff than he should have.

"I only meant that I don't think that I should like sleeping on my own."

"What would you suggest?" He asked her, trying to soften his voice.

"I'd prefer to share my bed with my husband." She whispered, bracing herself for disappointment. Without waiting for an answer, she went to the window and looked out onto the fields and the sky-it looked like the dark and fields and the loneliness of everything would go on forever. Instead of seeming awful, it all appeared to be wonderful and full and limitless.

"Could we take a walk out there tomorrow?" She asked him, turning her head gently. Her red hair fell radiantly about her shoulders.

"Whatever you want, Little Bird." He acquiesced.

"To the walk or to allowing me to sleep with you?"

"I'm not allowing you to do anything. I said that you can have whatever you want." He corrected, standing still in the doorway.

Sansa turned to leave the room, the faintest smile across her lips. She stopped to gather some of the blankets off of his—their—bed, as well as the flat pillows.

"Perhaps we will find another bed in this house to make our own."

Sansa slumped her head onto Sandor's lap, watching as sparks popped and cracked in the fire pit. She hadn't thought—and almost regretted asking him to make a fire. It was a stupid thing to ask for, and she should have known better. And yet he did—fully acquiescing her request. It was the strange paradox that she was noticing; his will was stronger than anything else—he seemed to be able to force himself to do anything, be anything, and he was loyal. She felt terribly, and yet he didn't make her feel that way. He made her a fire, despite how badly he hated them.

She didn't ask whose room it had been—she didn't want to know any of the history of the house, not really. What she was ignorant of couldn't damage her very deeply, and she had no desire to tread the waters of hurt, fear, aching. As selfish and horrid as it seemed, she was unable to compassionately give herself to the ghosts that she was sure hung around this place. And as long as she didn't ask, he wouldn't speak. He was so quiet. He was abrupt when he spoke, and then he was a mute. There was no in-between, no go around.

Sandor ran his fingers through Sansa's hair—carefully, gingerly, with a gratitude that he couldn't fully express even to himself. His eyes were closed as his fingertips lost their way in the tangle of her silken red curls. He chewed at his inner lips, keeping his face as stoic as a soldier's. His breath was filling up his lungs with every calculated gasp, his chest rose and fell, his thoughts raising like smoke rings above his shoulders.

She sat up to take another sip of her wine, daintily cleaning her lips after each little swig. When her body left his he could feel it in the pit of his stomach—a removal. He opened his eyes to gaze at her, unspeaking. Her eyes didn't meet his—she was star-gazing.

The window which led to the broken balcony was wide open, battered and old curtains lilting in the cold breeze. Sansa starred out at the shadow that was the moor, the sky glittering with thousands of undulating stars. She chirped as a star fell from the sky, leaving a vapor trail like phosphorescence in its wake. She fumbled with her wine, spilling it.

"Oh no!" She cried out, with more drama than the situation required. The wine wasn't just on her skirts-it was everywhere. She'd managed to nearly empty the skin onto herself. The entire front of her dress was ruined. The wine had soaked her down to the flesh, running from her mouth down to her chest. She could feel the sticky Arbor Gold as it moved in between her breasts. The white dress that she had chosen to wear was now ruined. She wanted to cry. "Look what I did!" She turned to Sandor and pointed at the white fabric that was clinging to her body.

"What is the problem, exactly?" He asked her. He'd had enough wine to not think before speaking.

"My chest is soaked with wine! I can't wear my dress-it is too uncomfortable and sticky to keep on."

"And what is the problem?" He asked her again. *Wrong response.

"Oh-" She said, lowering her eyes. She looked back up at him and could see quite clearly that he wouldn't mind if she were to just take the dress off. He wouldn't find her to be inappropriate or lewd. What would it matter, anyhow? He'd already walked in one her touching herself-the height of being unladylike. Clearly she didn't have to attempt to build an illusion for him. *Of course. He hates that. An even more unladylike thought entered her mind-she was free here at his Keep. He didn't seem like he had any rules to place on her. She turned to look at him, her eyes trained on his, sharpening as their eyes locked.

She made up her mind. She would seduce him.

God's know she didn't know how to go about that-but perhaps he'd want her—perhaps if she just started it he would take over. He said he wanted her earlier. She remained staring at him until his eyes broke from hers, moving slowly down her neck until they settled on her chest. She took a deep breathe and decided that it was time. She brought her hands to her sides and gently tugged at the bows that kept her wrap around dress secure. She pulled until the bow was completely loose.

Sandor was too drunk to be careful with his words or his actions-the gentlemanly thing would have been to offer to let her change dresses-the honest thing to say was exactly what he said. In his opinion, her chest doused in the sweet of wines was nothing short of—what? What was it, exactly? Much more than he deserved, but too much to deny himself the pleasure of observing. The annoyance of living with a constant hard cock was brought back to him-he could almost forget about it until this happened.

When she began unlacing her dress he felt like he was going to lose it. He knew that his jaw was beginning to hang slack, which he was sure would be unbecoming on a face like his. He tried to regain composure, but lost that battle almost immediately. Sansa stood up on the bed and pulled the dress off of her body, showing herself to him for the second time in the day. He was still laying down, gazing up at her. She shimmied out of her small clothes, stepping out of them. They were crumpled on the blanket—she caught her dress on her toes and kicked it off of the bed, sending it onto the floor. Her hair fell around her shoulders, framing her face- she'd given up wearing that ugly Southern style and blew in the wind when a breeze picked up, moving through the room.

"I don't think we should waste wine…" She said looking down on him, timidly. She did her best to sound brave.

He shook his head in agreement, his own mouth bone-dry. All of the strength in his body seemed to have transferred to his cock. She ran a hand between her breasts, a small drop of the wine collected on the end of her finger. She placed it on her bottom lip and lowered herself onto his chest, kissing him again. It wasn't an innocent kiss-she moved her hands to the sides of his face, running them across both sides equally. She opened her mouth and took his bottom lip in between hers, moving her tongue across his lip again. His hands moved to her legs, gently coaxing them to wrap around his chest until she was straddling him midsection.

She pulled away from him and breathed his name. She took his wine skin from his side and straightened up, taking a small drink from it, allowing it to run down her lips.

"I've spilled again." She whispered. "I don't want to be wasteful…"

"Little Bird, you must learn not to be wasteful." He murmured his reply. He moved his hands down the bed, digging into their blanket. She ran a hand over his face, tracing her fingers across his lips. He gently kissed each fingertip, tasting the sweetness of her flesh. Sansa's hips gently bucked against him. He growled in response.

"I'm going to have to teach you to be more mindful of spilling, Little Bird." He rasped as he lifted her up and proceeded to lay her out below him. She giggled as he set her down, her chest moving beautifully.

"Teach me to be a good wife." She said, biting her lip, whimpering sweetly.


	8. Chapter 8

**I don't think that this really needs an introduction! Dedicated to the usual suspects MidnightDawn67****, Corezzi1973, as well as crushnotsosecret! I'm taking Christmas one shot-requests up until the 20th! Enjoy!  
**

**Love,  
**

**Moa  
**

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The wild heather and the yellow grass blew wildly as a warm, southern breeze pierced the valley outside of the Keep. The stars which hung aloft in the heavens were letting go of their grips, falling to the earth in their mad jubilation—an early Autumn meteor shower. In the distance a Raven cried, his answer was the croaking of a toad, the chirping of a night-bug, the wind's effervescent sighing. The night wasn't empty-it was full of every imaginable thing, the field more alive than it seemed during the sunlit day time hours. The noises came in through the window, the world being thoroughly alive. It was out there, as well as in the room—the place was filled with a strange delight that hadn't been known since the birth of his brother.

Sansa's breasts heaved with wanton anticipation, her body trying to compensate for something that her mind had no knowledge of. Her life had not prepared her for this moment, nothing in her training had educated: she knew to serve, not how to please. She understood obedience to outside forces but not to the thing that she felt growing within her, the strange melange of new sensations that were carnal, primal in the most absolute way. To do what was necessary she'd have to live by a complication of intentions, she'd have to inch away from that which she would have readily done before. The Hound was her husband and by duty she knew that she would have to bed him before the sun rose across the craggy moor; what she hadn't calculated for was her desire to have him, regardless of obligation.

She held his gaze, his eyes locked on her, his hands still a safe distance away from her body. His eyes revealed his thoughts, though his face was as stoic as a soldier's. Sansa realized that her face must be doing the same thing-she knew that her own looks must not have betrayed what was happening within. She'd spent so long hiding herself that the urgency of her physical state no longer took precedence over other things. She softened her face as much as she could, moving her lips, trying to speak without having to say another word.

Her legs were spread across his midsection, her hands resting on his chest for support. She began to rock back and forth steadily, quietly, remembering the feelings that she'd given herself earlier. She couldn't allow herself to think of having her exposed and wet slit rubbing across his chest as being scandalous. She had to focus on being with him, and trust that he wouldn't be able to contain his annoyance if something displeased him. She didn't have to worry about reading his mind—she had to tell herself that. Her mask began slipping as she heard a deep growl come from his throat, as his hands began tracing her hips, curving around her arse, guiding her as she rocked against him. She began to chew her lip, bucking harder against him. He looked directly into her eyes, a faint smile on his lips.

"Does this please you?" Sansa whispered, "I want to please you."

He growled his response, pulling her down and flipping her onto the bed.

Sandor looked down upon her, having placed her onto her back. The first instinct that shot through him was dark and delicious, an invitation to his wildest and most lascivious thoughts. Sansa, in whatever she was experiencing, seemed to be thrown suddenly into this fit of lust that he'd once spent hours dreaming about. His every fantasy, from the moment that he'd laid his eyes upon her, was to have her beg for him to make love to her-for her to beg him to touch her, for her to be concerned about pleasuring him. It hit him very seriously that this was happening- his cock was aching and his entire body was dying to enter her- he wasn't entertaining a fantasy. She wasn't one of the whore's that he'd picked out because they'd looked like her, it was her. He starred into her eyes, becoming acutely aware that was concerned about pleasing him; she wasn't paying him lip service. Instead of consuming her, he felt momentarily overcome.

A moment of clarity washed over him-he loved her. Looking down on her, there was no part of him that could deny it. Her eyes were perfect and filled with a soft luminescence, her every feature was soft and beautiful and completely irresistible. Her breast-his favorite thing in the entire world-were highlighted gold and amber by the firelight light. Her nipples, softly erect against the puffy shadow or her areolas were now laced with sticky wine. He'd been hesitant with her, not wanting to cause her a moment of regret or disappointment. His will was fading. He became harder than he thought possible.

He lowered his face to hers to kiss her again—their lips touched and he realized that he'd passed the point of no return. He'd make her love him at some point-or at least make himself worthy of her. In the meantime, he'd teach her to be a good wife.


	9. Chapter 9

**One day I will live a steady life in which I always have time to write, and I quit filling my head with doubt. A short chapter (if you could call it that)- will Sansa and Sandor ever (ahem) express their feelings for one another? A mystery!**

**Love,**

**Moa**

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If only it had been a nightmare, or could be undone-

Sansa awoke in the dim morning light, the thick rumbling of thunder gathering all about her; the stones in the keep made every sound feel both distant and close, as though she were a prisoner to the elements. She wanted to scream into her pillow, but couldn't bring herself to make any sound. She wanted to melt, to fade into the rolling and clashing of the storm gathering in the distance and be distributed all over the fields. She awoke in a way that was quite similar to the way in which she'd gone to sleep—with her maiden head intact, no progress made, and as abandoned as a sailor cast away to the sea. She closed her eyes as tight as she could and tried to think of a song to fill the ringing in her brain, but nothing came but the maiden's prayer—and she delighted not in those words.

A fine wife she made, she thought—useless, ridiculous. She wanted to die of embarrassment. She was sickened by the way she'd behaved the night before; she'd forgotten her honor as a lady and had betrayed herself, and now was married but not yet a wife—sold, but without the pleasure of having done her duty. Hot tears formed in her eyes. He'd seemed so eager at one moment, and then without warning he'd stormed away from her, slamming the door and disappearing into the darkness without a word of explanation—not a syllable or phrase to hint at what exactly had occurred—only the purity of isolation, like hoarfrost and snow.

She tried to shove the darkness from her mind, to no avail.

Thunder rang out loudly, so close that it sent a metallic taste through her mouth, like biting down on a cold spoon, or having a horn blown directly into her ear. It was deafening; she could have faced waking alone had the sun been out, had a bird been singing, flowers waving in the wind.

She didn't have the wherewithal to feel gratified that the storm was building to the East, to take comfort that the impending darkness was at least stalled for a moment.

For the moment all she knew was that once again she was all alone, ferried from one cage to the next, every song false.


	10. Chapter 10

**Another short chapter- hopefully a longer one this week-end!**

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The sun rose on bad thoughts and a sleepless night. He sat in a chair by the empty fire pit, feeling the cold morning air against his lips. The sound of a raven screaming through the halls forced him away from her the night before, and the note forced his mind into darkness. He wanted to laugh at the contents, if only because they were so awful. It was like holding a blade to his own throat, or sinking beneath a wave that carried a dose of wildfire while badly needing to surface. The demand was plain, and he understood the game that was being played. it made his heart feel like it was encased in ice.

After a month of traveling, he was already being summoned back to court- his King wanted an audience to discuss the rightful claim of the keep and his wife.

Gregor, presumed dead, has returned to the South- all titles, grants, lands and holdings were in question.

Including Sansa.


	11. Chapter 11

**Hola, all! Thank you everyone for reading this little piece of work. I don't know what I've done to get the best readers in the entire fandom- but what can I say? You are all amazing. If anyone wants to talk to me you can also e-mail me at hadesmoon . Suggestion for this story- listen to Nick Cave's "Sweetheart, Come". I think that it is one of the best songs for SanSan, and I happen to think that it makes reading these stories even better.**

**Thank you all for the sweet reviews, especially thanks to Littlefeather, who is sort of like my fairy fandom queen (even though I never tell her)!**

**Love,**

**Moa**

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Sandor nursed a flagon of Dornish Sour, drinking it slowly. It made the rot in his gut feel less pronounced and it made his thoughts flow evenly. He could see red all around him, even while sitting in the middle of the yellow hall. He sank low in his chair, forcing himself to breathe- always breathe, always surface. There was a low, dull ache that was flowing from his throat into his head, a steady ringing that he couldn't force down. He tore the Raven's note into a few pieces and let them fall to the floor, the white sheets stained with ink.

The fucking Septon- that was his first mistake. He should have kept the bastard in a cage, dragged him back to King's Landing instead of forcing him to flee. Had he thought to do that, perhaps- perhaps nothing. Perhaps and maybe and what could have been are dangerous thoughts. The morning calm that was rising with the Earth was echoing his sentiments. This wasn't the time for any measure of regret, yet he couldn't stop feeling as though he were looking at his life backwards rather than forward.

Sansa Clegane, not Stark- his wife- was demanded back at court. The ache continued. His brother lived and his wife was wanted.

He wasn't stupid. He didn't need the meaning of the message to be written out. The King meant to make an example of her, of him, of the entire situation- he meant to dissolve their marriage and the titles and the land grants in favor of Gregor, who survived, who was never dead. Sandor was the Lannister Dog, but The Mountain was Tywin Lannister's real pet.

Another drink from the flagon, trying to keep his thoughts on an even tack.

There was no way that he could take her back. She'd be given over to Gregor without hesitation, who would in turn happily put her head on a spike or worse. He thought of Cersei- the fucking cunt. He'd been her dog before she'd spawned Joffrey. She was once a girl left in King's Landing, afraid and tied to her duty- and yet she was half of the reason that Sansa had been tormented. The bitch hated her. Instead of offering herself up as a friend, a mother, she only exemplified the worst aspects of Lannister darkness.

His little bird had been a prisoner, but he could offer her some degree of freedom. He wouldn't take her back to her cage- not for all the ships and gold in Qarth. Not even if he were promised an opportunity to kill his brother himself. Nothing was more important than she.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, remembering the feeling of searing heat: days spent in the sun at King's Landing, listening to the sounds of gulls as they screached through the sky, the smells of the gutters mixing with the high perfumes that would roll out of the Sept of Baelor. He could almost feel his skin underneath his armor, mail and tunics, hwo they would cling to him and he sweated while standing guard. He was like a stone man, carved out of the cliff sides. People would look away when he passed, their heads always bent to the ground, or skyward, or any which way, just so their eyes did not catch his. He could always smell blood in the air, and taste it, like the smell of rain.

He opened his eyes and exhaled heavily. He'd always measured himself as a coward rather than a hero- no true knight, buggering hells. He'd been built for killing, not to be a tactician. Even when he fought in all out battles he didn't go in with particular strategy, he only followed orders, like a the water in a stream follows a path to lead to a river or the sea. A dog needed no courage to kill rats.

But a man needed courage if he were to love another. The thought sunk through him like a stone underneath an ice sheet- all still in grey, and dire.

He rose to meet the day with the beginnings of a plan set in motion. She'd survive it, but he doubted his odds.


End file.
